


when all night long

by 17o2585



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton & Thomas Jefferson Hate Each Other, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, all fun and games until they fall in love lmao, but then they don't, they also become professional wedding ditchers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28463832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17o2585/pseuds/17o2585
Summary: In the end, it’s ditching weddings that brings them together.Alexander finds this quite fascinating— their relationship is and has always been something akin to a rollercoaster on fire, and as they grow close, it’s funny enough that of all the things that inevitably make them get along, it’s running around town in suits, away from the party and into their own things.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Kudos: 36





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

> :)

* * *

There are three types of nights Alexander enjoys. 

One— the quiet, lazy nights where he and his friends watch something stupid and funny or scary out of their wit’s end, clutching each other, either laughing or screaming, respectively. 

Two— the nights where he forgets comfort as a whole and focuses his whole heart on his work and writing, back hunched and fingers cramping, spilling ink onto paper. He brings the inner fragments and thoughts of his mind and pushes them out into something touchable and conceivable and absorbable. 

Three— the moments where he has time to sit by himself and read a book or listen to some of his favorite music. It’s rare, but they’re the best of the three options, and the ones he cherishes the most. 

As displayed, weddings are not on the fucking list, and Alexander is well on his way to making the impulsive, split-second decision of running the fuck away from the place. 

He almost does, until—

“Ah!” An older woman who he has definitely never fucking met before coos, coming up to him, smiling. “And how are you, dear?”

She seems nice enough, but Alexander goes _what the fuck_ in his brain and short-circuits. “Uh," he says, probably making himself look like a fucking dumbstruck, jaw hanging open, all-in-all stupid idiot, "Hi?"

"Hello," she says pleasantly. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"It’s nice to meet you,” he says suddenly, then relays the question back to her. “Yeah, it's fun! I'm, uh, Alexander, by the way.”

“I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," she says. "Oh, and you've got a beautiful name."

He relaxes only the slightest at it— she’s not a monster, just a woman he has most certainly never seen in his life before this. He can work with it. Hamilton laugh, Hamilton charm. _Smile more_ , as Burr had told him. Stupid advice from a stupid man, of course, but whatever. He was right— _sometimes_.

The woman goes on, “Did you know Alexander means brave? Your parents must have named you knowing you’d be a brave young man.”

Well. Alexander certainly gave zero shits about the meaning of names, but it was interesting information. “I’ll ask my mom,” he says instinctively, then he stops. “Wait. Oh, uh. I take that back. She’s dead.”

The stillness that ensues is some of the fucking awkwardest silences he’s ever had to endure. Half of him has the mind to run the fuck away from the situation, to hide under a tree and scream. He does not— he is _not_ a baby, he'll stay and talk to the fucking woman and be _mighty_ doing it. 

The woman blinks, then frowns. “Well, I offer my condolences.”

“It’s, uh, fine. It was a long time ago.”

“Well— you seem to be a lovely young man,” she says, recovering and going on, “Do you have...” her eyes twinkle, “a special someone?”

There are two ways this can go. 

Alexander can either make a fucking fool of himself in front of his woman, or he can lie. And though he doesn't _enjoy_ lying, per se, the latter seems much more appealing. 

“Yeah,” he says.

"Are they your plus one?" The woman asks, genuine curiosity painted across her features.

Alexander stares, heartbeat speeding up at an unhealthy rate. "Uh, yeah," he says, then makes the stupidest fucking instantaneous decision he’s ever made to cover up the fucking lie he _definitely should not have made_ , “Yo, Jefferson,” he calls, “Come here!” 

From the opposite side of the venue, Jefferson scowls, "What do you want, Hamilton?"

"It's important," he yells back. "Like, really important."

The woman merely watches, ostensibly believing everything happening. Either she's gullible, or Alexander is coming off as a naturally awkward and quirky person and she's not batting an eye at his momentary imbecility. 

Thomas blinks a few times, doubtful, but moves towards them anyway— _thank fuck._ “What do you want, Hamilton—”

Alexander's brain screams, but he ignores it, tucking his elbow into the man’s and leans in, kissing his cheek. Jefferson’s eyes widen in horror, he moves back, Alexander panics, and—

“Yeah,” Alexander squeaks, way-too-fucking-loud, grip tightening on Jefferson’s arm, “This is my boyfriend.”

“What the fuck,” says Thomas.

Alexander smiles, all too bright and forced. “Uh, sorry. You know— funny story. My nickname for him is Dory because he has literally no memory capacity.” He tucks closer into him, then swallows. “He must’ve forgotten we were dating, what a silly goose.”

The sound that leaves Thomas’s body is one he’ll never fucking forget. 

“Aw,” the woman says, smiling at them kindly. “You two are adorable. Oh! They’re cutting the cake, I’m sure I’ll see you soon!” 

Once she’s gone, the two stand there, gazing at each other. Alexander stares at Thomas, and Thomas gawks back, completely and utterly shocked. There's distant chatter in the background, but the world has blurred into them and only them. 

“What the fuck,” they say, finally, in unison. 

More staring ensues.

“I panicked,” Alexander states finally, tone as if it's something he'd rather pass away then tell. It's almost like he's admitting a weakness to his enemy— he most definitely is, but in the grand scheme of things, it seems like the best thing to say. “And you’re the only one I thought of.”

“That was Seabury’s mother,” Thomas says vaguely, blinking at half the normal speed. “I can imagine she’s going to mention this at their family’s dinner table, someday.”

“I panicked,” Alexander says again like it’s a fucking good explanation. He crosses his arms, bouncing his foot— as the previous hysteria wears off, it's becoming awkward and stifling. To his embarrassment, of course. He's the one who fucking got them in the situation in the first place. _What the fuck,_ Alexander thinks again, _what the actual fuck._

“Dory,” Thomas says vaguely. “Jesus, you’re the fucking dumbest person I’ve ever met.”

“It was clever.”

“It most certainly was not.”

“Fuck off,” says Alexander, sliding back into what he knows well and true and easy— arguing with the dumbass in front of him— “You’re fucking jealous of my smartness.”

“I’m not wasting my time arguing with a person with the mental age of a child.”

“Okay, and if that’s me, you’re a toddler.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Thomas says, shaking his head. “Anyways, before you fucking called me here, I was saying bye to people. I’m leaving.”

“To do what?” Alexander asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge. 

“None of your fucking business.”

“Ooh,” says Alexander. “Drugs, huh?”

“Are you a fucking child?”

“Take me with you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m fucking bored,” Alexander complains, sighing deeply. “If you’re going to go do drugs, I’d _love_ to come with you.”

“I’m not fucking going to do that,” Thomas says, scowling at him. “And no. Fuck off.”

“C’mon,” says Alexander. “Weddings are not my thing— I’m bored as fuck.”

“You've said that to times, and what the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

Alexander stares at him, then huffs, gaze piercing. “Fine, whatever. _Don’t_ have fun.” He turns his foot to leave, making it more dramatic than it has to be. “I’ll suffer through this, thanks to you.”

Thomas watches him leave, rolls his eyes, and heads to the parking lot. 

* * *

“Surprise.”

Thomas yelps, jumping slightly. He zeros in on the man sitting atop his car, regaining senses, and groans audibly. “Jesus, fuck, Alex, leave me alone.”

“No,” says Alexander. “My personal life mission is to annoy the crap out of you. As I can see, it’s working.”

Thomas sighs deeply, then opens the door. He glances up at Alexander, contemplating for a moment, then shakes his head in defeat. “God, if you’re this adamant on tagging along, you can come with me.”

“Ay,” Alexander cheers, opening the door, climbing inside, and slamming it shut. 

Thomas rubs his forehead. “This is an expensive car, for Christ’s sake,” he says wearily. “This man is going to be the death of me.”

“Damn right,” Alexander says, muffled from inside.

Thomas sighs. He climbs into the car, reaching out and starting the engine. Alexander tilts his head in distaste, then looks out the window, lips drawn into a look of observation. "This car is fucking ugly," he announces a moment later.

"Gee, thanks."

"So, where are you going," asks Alexander.

“I was planning on going home,” Thomas says, “To finish up some stuff. Do you need me to drop you at yours?”

Alexander shrugs and says, “Sure. Aren’t you itching for something fun, though?”

“Huh?”

“The wedding was boring,” Alexander says like it's obvious. "I want to do something _entertaining_."

“Weddings are boring,” says Thomas, for the first time agreeing. “I’ve been to probably one fun one, and that’s just the way it is. And can't you have picked John, or something?”

Alexander shrugs. "Maybe." He breathes deeply, sinking back into the seat. “And yeah, I’ve been to one wedding before this, and that was when I was like, 5. I don’t even remember it. Anyway—” he pauses, eyes tracking the trees whooshing past them, “Do you want to, like, get food?”

“Huh?”

“I’m hungry,” says Alexander. “And I have no food at home. Do you want to go and grab something, or like…”

“I was going home for a reason,” says Thomas.

Alexander blows out a breath, seemingly amused. “Well, does this mean yes or no? Can’t really read minds, Jefferson.”

Thomas squints, but his eyes stay ahead. “Sure,” he says, because _why the fuck not._ “Anywhere in particular?”

“I know a good Burmese restaurant,” Alexander says, clearing his throat. He shrugs, “it’s pretty good food, I guess I’m craving it right now because it’s the first thing I’ve ever thought of.”

“I’ve never had Burmese food,” says Thomas.

“You’ve never— what?”

“I said I’ve never had Burmese food,” Thomas repeats, leaning forward in concentration. He turns his blinkers on, trained on the road ahead. 

“Yes, I know, but why?” 

“... I’ve never had the chance? It’s not really the most well-known cuisine?”

Alexander scowls, leaning back and shaking his head in irritation. “You have time to eat your stupid mac and cheese, but not that? I’ll give you directions, I’m not going to let you live out your life like this.” 

Thomas huffs in annoyance. “Jesus, I like trying new stuff, it’s not like I don’t want to. It’s just not something I’ve thought of?”

There’s silence before Alexander sighs, nodding. “Fine,” he admits. “I wouldn’t have tried it if it weren’t for Hercules taking me.”

“What’s your favorite cuisine?” Thomas asks, apparently interested in keeping the useless conversation going. 

Alexander snorts. “Anything cheaper than 10 bucks is good for me, it's not like I'm at the liberty of picking and choosing like you obviously can— but if I seriously had to pick, probably Chinese food. Thai too, maybe even Italian if it's from a good place. Oh!" He says, as if remembering, "Herc makes the best noodles— spaghetti counts, I guess. It's his secret talent, working with string pasta slash noodles slash whatever the fuck you want to call them.”

“Hm, maybe I'll have to crash your dinner night once, have a taste for myself,” Thomas says.

“Please don't.” Alexander wrinkles his nose, shaking his head. “So— you?”

“Uh, French?”

“Should’ve guessed,” says Alexander, lips tilting upwards. “Besides that?”

“Probably Italian, like you.”

“Hm,” Alexander says, “Well, one thing we can agree on.” He smiles, raising an eyebrow. “What an accomplishment, huh?”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, the lines of his mouth loosening the slightest. 

The car falls into a steady silence, save Alexander’s occasional directions. Minutes go by, but as much as he will never admit, the ride is smooth. The ridiculous amount of money pays off, apparently. (Not that he cares. He's good with public transport— it's good for the environment and not a money wasting gas guzzler.) By the time they pull into the parking lot, it’s dark. _Perfect time for dinner,_ Alexander notes. 

As they step out of the car, Thomas looks down, brushing his suit off and straightening it of its tiny creases. Whatever it is, it’s a grand display of his stupidity.

“We’re dressed too fancy for a restaurant,” Thomas says. 

“Correction: you’re too fancy for this. I’m not the one wearing a fucking four hundred dollar suit.”

“More like four thousand, but okay,” says Thomas.

Alexander’s head whips so hard he winces a second afterward. “Why the hell are you spending so much money on a fucking suit,” he argues. “This costs 40, and I still look hot.”

Thomas wiggles his eyebrows. “And your point?”

“I am living proof money can’t buy sexiness.”

“Well,” Thomas says after a moment. “I’d have to agree with that.”

“What,” says Alexander.

“What,” Thomas repeats innocently, batting his eyelashes. 

Though it takes three separate rounds of banter, but they make it inside the restaurant and into a booth. Gazing at the menu appreciatively, Thomas raises an eyebrow and whistles lowly, “I’d never trust your judgment otherwise, but this shit looks good.”

“Rule number one of being a good person,” says Alexander vaguely, eyes trained on the page, “Never refer to food as _‘shit’_ , no matter how positive the sentence may be.”

“And you’re teaching me how to be a gentleman?” 

“I have no interest being a fucking gentlemen,” remarks Alexander. He scowls in distaste, “I’m talking about how to be a decent person.”

Thomas snorts, loud and disbelieving. “You’re nothing close to a decent person.”

“Maybe not,” Alexander says, “but my mom taught me that, and she most definitely was.”

A long, awkward silence stretches. Alexander keeps trained on the menu; Thomas looks away, obscurely disgruntled. It's not the first time their banter has resulted in a far too personal range— they know what's off limits to each other. Though Thomas hadn't known, of course, Alexander can see him wincing in guilt. _Fucking booth, can't even look away_.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Jefferson, leave it. It’s fine. Seriously.”

Thomas stares at him, and in the moment, Alexander can’t even avoid the gaze. They’re sitting opposite of each other in a fucking booth, what opinion does he have but to stare back? 

“You’re not a bad person, Hamilton,” Thomas says. “I mean, I get I’m supposed to act like you are, but truly, you’re not too shabby.”

“Well,” replies Alexander, “That seems— that seems superficial, Jefferson. I honestly do not give a fuck about whether someone likes me or not. And I give sero fucks about whether you do either. Our relationship revolves around insulting each other, and that's what you did. There was no harm in it, you don't even know my mom at all— you wouldn't have known."

Silence follows.

“You know,” Thomas starts again, a few moments later. He taps nails against the table repeatedly, “I know your signature color is green, and all, but I think it really suits you as a person.”

Alexander leans forward, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Your aura is calm but energetic,” Thomas tells him. “You’re collected and stable, even though outwardly you may be energetic— you know what you're doing, and you've mapped it out." He tilts his head, surveying he man's expression. "And ambition— you're driven. Not by god or religion, or anything, I’m not assuming. But you’re driven by something.

“And, you obviously seem like a money or finance sort of guy,” says Thomas. “A part of you is greedy. You want something, maybe not money, per se, but you _want_. Whatever it is, it keeps you going.”

“I want to be satisfied,” Alexander says, but it’s an echo. Something from deep within, something protected with careful and heavy masking. 

Thomas’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

Alexander shrugs— it’s passive and easy, but a part of his expression contradicts the movement. It’s not okay, and it's obviously something he’s thought long and hard on. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be at peace. Or, at least content with myself. I have to keep going— I have to do more and more.” He sighs. “I’ve come to accept it.”

“Why?” Thomas asks, but it’s not pushing. He’s curious, and Alexander can’t blame him for it. 

Alexander’s lips tilt up the slightest— it’s barely there, but it _is_ , and that’s enough for now. “We’re going therapist here, huh?” He sobers once again, shaking his head. “It’s the way I survived, Jefferson,” he says. “After the hurricane, I climbed back up with broken legs and started running with them. That’s the reason I’ve made it this far.”

“Sounds painful,” Thomas comments, “But kudos to you. Not a lot of people are strong enough to achieve something like that, and yet, you have.”

“I’m not done yet, Jefferson,” Alexander states. He looks up mildly, locking eyes with the man. “Just you wait— there are a million things I haven’t done.”

“That could be an iconic line in a song,” Thomas says humorously. “Keep it.”

“Maybe I will,” Alexander says, sharing a smile with the man. “So— what’d you think about the wedding?”

“Well,” says Thomas, “It’s really rude to leave events like those, but I…” he pauses, hesitating. “My leg flared up again, and I was going to go home to take some rest.”

Instantly, Alexander stills, eyes widening. “What the fuck,” he says, leaning forward, concerned. “Jefferson, you should’ve told me! I thought you were leaving or fun, or I would’ve never— shit, are you in pain? Are you—”

“Alex,” Thomas says, rolling his eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but it’s not too bad. I was just going home so I didn’t have to stand, and I’m not standing now, am I?” 

“Fuck,” Alexander says. “Fuck, Thomas. I pushed, and I was trying to be fun and all, but you—”

“Alexander, I’m glad we’re here,” says Thomas, cutting him off. “I would have had to cook dinner at home, and this is good because I don’t need to cook. Take a breath, I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I’m fine, Alexander.” 

They stare at each other. Alexander shakes his head. “Do you want to make the stuff we ordered To-Go, and go to your house or my flat? It could be more comfortable.”

“Did you just invite yourself into my house?” Thomas asks, apparently delighted. 

“Uh…” Alexander stops, then narrows his eyes. “Well, I invited you into mine, and while I would really not prefer the stench of rich people, I can make an exception for this instance because I feel bad.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Thomas says, then: “John’s rich.”

“John used to be rich, _and_ he's my roommate” Alexander corrects, “and even so: he’s not an asshole.”

“If you have a protection plan against assholes, I’m surprised you’re allowed in your own apartment.” 

“Fuck off,” Alexander says, huffing lightly. “And I’m doing a good deed for you, so please take it or leave it before I change my mind.”

“Leave it,” Thomas snorts. “I’m good here. It’s a nice restaurant.”

“Told you,” says Alexander smugly, “And well— you’re uninvited from my apartment.”

“It really was a one time deal, huh,” Thomas faux pouts. “I’m wounded.”

Alexander throws his head back, hair falling from the less-than-normal messy bun he’s put in place. It’s half-up, half-down, something Thomas will never admit makes Alexander _nice_. He laughs, “ask nicely, and maybe you’ll get another chance.”

“Maybe I will,” Thomas says smoothly, raising an eyebrow. 

Alexander smiles. “Maybe you will,” he repeats. He frowns, glancing at Thomas’s suit, and bits his lip in contemplation. “By the way, about the green thing, I’d say the same for you.”

“Huh?”

“Purple is the color of wealth and royalty. Though I hate to admit it, purple is a smooth fucker color, and you’re a smooth fucker. Put two and two together, and you’re purple.”

“You’re stupid,” Thomas says, “I’m not _purple_ . I’m _magenta_.”

“Oh, like there’s a fucking difference.”

“There _is_.” 

“No, there really isn’t,” says Alexander. “They’re the same color, but pretentious shits like you want to seem all fucking fancy and pretend they aren’t.”

Thomas glares at him, brushing off his suit exaggeratedly. “Are you fucking blind?”

“My eyes are clear enough to see you and your stupidity, so I’d put my bets on no.”

“There’s a line, Hamilton,” Thomas says distastefully, “And you’ve certainly fucking crossed it. Jesus— and I thought I could’ve _maybe_ been your friend. Maybe we could’ve worked past it, but this is irreversible. I can’t tolerate your idiocy anymore, I’m done.”

“You sound like you’re breaking up with me,” Alexander says. His tone lacks severity, but he purses his lip in distaste. “Guess I’ve got to break the news to Samuel Seabury’s mom. She’d be so disappointed.”

“Okay," says Thomas, "I gotta admit: I’m surprised Seabruy even invited me.”

“He invited everyone at the office, Jefferson. I’m surprised I was invited, but I showed up because while he’s an annoying fucker, he’s nowhere near George King level.”

“I love this George King Slander,” Thomas says, plain amusement written across his features. “Please, go on.”

“He should be named George Peasant,” says Alexander. "He sure isn't some fucking king."

Thomas laughs. “That’s an insult to peasants.”

Alexander rolls his eyes, affectionate and genuine. “Well, I’m pretty sure he’s going to remarry— he’s on what: the eighteenth wife?”

“Something like that,” Thomas says. He proceeds to roll up a napkin and throws the item at Alexander’s face. 

The man’s jaw drops as he gawks, offended. He rubs his nose, glaring. “What the fuck?” 

“That’s payback for humiliating me today,” Thomas says fondly, lips twitching upward. “Speaking of, are you going to tell me what the actual _fuck_ that was about?”

“I already told you,” Alexander says. “I panicked. John’s dating Laf and Herc, or I would’ve picked him.”

Thomas squints, shifting in his seat the slightest. “Sucks for you, man, your friend picks your other two—”

“Oh, wait, no,” says Alexander, shaking his head harshly. More hair falls out of the bun. “I’m not interested in him.”

“Huh,” Thomas says, something akin to surprise splashed across his face, “I could’ve sworn you liked him.”

“I dated him for a while, but it didn’t work out. No hard feelings from either of us, it just wasn’t meant to be. He had eyes for them anyway, and well.” He swallows, awkward. “I have feelings for someone else.”

Either he imagines it completely, a rooting hope tricking his mind, or Thomas looks disappointed for a split second. “Me too,” the man says. 

“Is it James?”

Surprise makes another round upon his expression, this time full-fledged. “No,” Thomas says. “James has a boyfriend— and he’s like a brother to me.” 

“Well,” Alexander says. “I definitely miscalculated that.” 

Thomas smiles, soft and genuine. His phone pings only a second later, and it turns into a growing, confused frown. Alexander’s own phone buzzes. They look at each other for a moment, then open them respectfully. 

“I take it,” Thomas says, mystified, scanning the text on his phone repeatedly, “you’re seeing the same text as me?”

“Yeah,” says Alexander, own gaze drawn to the screen. He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “I knew it. I fucking knew it was gonna happen, I helped with finding the best ring we could get."

Thomas raises an eyebrow, "Another on the road? Looks like I'll have to find more of my suits."

Alexander slides his phone back into his pocket; Thomas follows the suit. Silence overtakes the booth, long and steady— it’s more comfortable than not. Lost in their own thoughts for the moment, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, the quiet is broken when Alexander huffs a laugh. A mix of sheer disbelief and excitement crosses his expression. And only in an instant, the scene changes: Alexander sniffs, eyes growing glossy.

“You just went through three different emotions in a minute,” Thomas says, bordering curious. Though it's still underlying blatant joy written across Alexander's expression, he goes ahead and asks anyway. "Are you alright?"

Alexander turns upwards, smiling brighter than Thomas has ever seen before. "I'm trying not to cry," he says, huffing a laugh. “I’ve dated both of them, and I was the one who set them up. I'm so thrilled for them.” He heaves out a breathy laugh. "Fuck, man, they deserve it."

“That they do,” Thomas replies, raising his water glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to Eliza and Maria, huh?” 

Alexander smiles, raising his own glass. “See you at the wedding.”


	2. deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a set of two lines that are exactly copied from the last chapter, that's not a mistake and see if you can find it for fun lmao

At the third wedding Alexander has ever attended, he learns something that pretty much confirms what he’d suspected all along. Quite frankly— it didn’t matter whether you were a distant attendee or best man— weddings were fucking _boring_ in general. 

The person officiating the marriage drones on and on about whatever the shit he’s talking about. Maria shifts, looking as pained as himself, and swallows. Directly parallel, Eliza smiles politely, nodding along occasionally. 

It’s a beautiful moment, no denying it. He wants to remember it forever, for the memories, but it’s a hard fucking task when he’s falling asleep in front of more than, like, fifty people. Alexander scans the heads in front of him, facing him, and does a double-take at the familiar gorgeously poofed hair of— _Jesus Christ of course he’s here_ — his rival. 

_Yeah,_ Alexander thinks, _of course, he’s fucking here, you idiot, you were together when getting the invite._

Thomas catches his gaze, smirks. “Ducks at be coup fis feat,” he mouths. 

Alexander blinks rather dumbly. 

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Ducks to be you,” he mouths again, slower, “In this weat.”

His fingers twitch the slightest at the urge to flip the man off. He controls it— there’s no way he’s risking going back and seeing the wedding pictures with something like that, won’t risk Angelica on his ass about it. 

James sits next to Thomas; his eyes meet Alexander’s for a brief second. He smirks the slightest, seemingly amused, then lets his gaze fall back to the two women at the very front. Thomas leans in, says something. James rolls his eyes, murmurs something back. There’s no denying it’s Thomas probably making fun of him, but he stops the scowl from forming and turns back to whatever the hell is currently going on. 

Eventually, the wedding spokesperson— or whatever the fuck they’re called— declares for the kiss. Eliza leans in; Maria does the same. 

Okay, well, that’s good— Alexander can finally sit down soon and eat some food. It’s also great that Maria and Eliza are wives— _fucking wives!!_ — and he makes a mental note to congratulate them properly, but right now— he wants to eat. 

The crowd starts getting up, dispurses around the venue as people start talking to each other. Several come up to where Maria and Eliza are standing to wish them. Mister Schuyler smiles the widest, kissing his daughter on the cheek. He does the same for Maria only a second later; Alexander finds himself smiling at Maria’s contagious, albeit relieved, grin. 

Normal wedding things come and go, hours pass, and soon, he and John sit squished in a chair, watching the couple dance. It’s beautiful— Eliza herself comes from a ballerina background, and mixed with Maria’s ability to hold a beat, they turn out to be a bomb. 

John leans into him the slightest, “They’re good,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Alexander snorts, “They’re Maria and Eliza. What do you expect?”

John doesn’t respond, gaze drawn back at the two. Alexander follows the line of sight, lets himself fall victim to the sheer mesmerization of their dancing. 

People start joining in as Maria and Eliza finish. John gets up, forming a dance circle trio thing with his boyfriends, while Alexander keeps his ass down at the table and watches. 

Time passes, then more. Alexander gets asked to dance exactly three times, declines them all. Through the loudness of the music, he doesn’t hear someone coming up behind him, and— 

“Hamilton.”

Alexander shrieks like a baby, flying upwards. Thomas gawks at the reaction for a second, before bursting into laughter. It gets louder by the minute— soon, Thomas is clutching the table’s side, doubled over it. 

“Fuck off,” says Alexander, glaring. “Dude— stop fucking laughing like a fucking donkey, people are watching.” Thomas doesn’t. Alexander’s annoyance grows as he blushes in embarrassment. “Jefferson, shut the fuck up.”

Thomas fucking _doesn’t_. He keeps laughing his stupid, constipated rhino laugh. 

Alexander picks up his water glass and warns, “I’m gonna pour this on you if you don’t shut the fuck up.” (The stupid, constipated rhino laugh does not cease.) “I’m serious,” says Alexander, again in warning, bringing the glass higher, “I’m gonna do it.” (Of course, he gets stupid, conspired rhino sounds in return.) His fingers twitch, “Okay, well, I did warn you.”

Alexander lifts the glass at Thomas’s chest level and dumps it. 

In an instant, the laughter is gone— and this time, it’s Thomas who shrieks. 

“What the fuck,” he yells, “this is an expensive suit!” 

“I told you to shut up,” says Alexander, defiant. “And it’s just water. It’ll dry. Oh, and you’re rich as fuck, go buy a new one or something.”

Thomas looks down at his suit, dispaired. He sighs mourningly, “I just got it dry cleaned.”

“Does it look like I fucking care?” Alexander remarks, “you were making a complete fool out of me.” He pauses, “and in extension, yourself, actually, I wasn’t the one donkey neighing everywhere.”

“Donkeys don’t neigh,” says Thomas vaguely. He shakes his head, “Jesus, I’m all wet. I need a change of clothes.” He meets Alexander’s eyes, irritated. “Thanks a lot.”

“Ooh, back to your hotel room?” Alexander wags an eyebrow. “I can come.”

“No thanks,” Thomas says, expression wrinkling like it’s fucking most horrific idea ever— which it is, probably.

“C’mon, I’m _bored_.”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” says Thomas.

Alexander snorts and says, “Yeah, we have, actually, if your memory worked. You’re like _Dory_.”

Thomas groans audibly at the mention. “Jesus, fuck, you’re a pest,” he says. 

“So,” Alexander tilts his head, “Am I allowed to come with you? I mean, c’mon, Jeff, there’s no denying that the restaurant experience was fun. I can be a blast sometimes, you’re just too stupid to realize it.” 

“You’re the fucking best man at this wedding,” says Thomas. “And don’t fucking call me Jeff, I’ll throw you off a cliff.”

“Okay, and?” Alexander asks in an _are you dumb tone,_ “Eliza and Maria _sont occupées_ , if you can’t fucking see, they won’t even notice.” 

Thomas stares at him for a second. Something in his expression softens the slightest— it’s fucking weird to see, and honestly, Alexander can’t place why it looks so fucking attractive either. “Okay, yeah, fine,” says Thomas. “Now— hurry up, I’m getting cold from this stupid water.”

“I could warm you up,” Alexander mutters as they start towards the venue doors. 

Thomas hisses as the cold hits him— it’s dark now, around late evening, and the air has turned chilly naturally. And in this early spring weather, the nights are cooler, closer to the previous winter than the future summer. 

“Uh—” says Alexander, vaguely guilty. “Do you want my jacket?”

Thomas glares at him, but it’s fonder than angry. “You’re small if you haven’t noticed.” 

_“Yes, Alex, thank you,_ ” Alexander mocks in the best Thomas accent he can. “ _I appreciate you saving my life, Alex.”_

“C’mon,” says Thomas, amused. “The hotel is just across the street.”

“I know,” says Alexander, not-amused. “I’m staying at the same fucking hotel.”

Thomas laughs at this, loud and genuine. It surprises Alexander the slightest— he’s not the least bit bothered by the situation, or at least doesn’t seem to be showing it. Something about the information warms Alexander's heart, makes him smile to himself. 

“Do you have DoorDash or something? UberEats?” Alexander asks suddenly.

“No,” says Thomas automatically, surprise leaking in his tone. He frowns, confused, “Why?”

Alexander wrings his hands together, his fingers numbing slightly at the cold. “I don’t know, it just seems like a fun time to order some hot chocolate or something.”

Thomas’s lips quirk upwards. “Well, I lied. To answer your question— yeah, I have both on my phone. We can order in the room.”

“Cool,” Alexander says, and leaves it at that. 

* * *

“Okay,” Thomas says, throwing his unlocked phone into Alexander’s lap. “Pick and order what you’d like, I’m going to change— I trust you have at least enough intelligence to navigate an app.”

Alexander blinks. “You’re giving me your unlocked phone while you use the bathroom? That’s…” His expression turns gleeful, “That’s the fucking dumbest idea ever.”

“I have nothing to hide,” says Thomas.

“I’m gonna go to Chrome and type the letter _‘_ p’.” 

Thomas blinks and says, “You’re immature as shit.”

Alexander winks. “Okay— uh— what do you want?”

“Hot Chocolate or Mocha, either is fine. Medium, I guess, or small.”

“M’kay,” says Alexander distantly, focused on the phone. “Where’s my phone— I’ll Paypal you.” 

“You don’t need to PayPal me four bucks,” says Thomas.

Alexander shakes his head in finality. “I’ll PayPal you.”

“I’ll go change,” says Thomas, “I trust you won’t snoop into my things.”

“That’s false trust, sorry,” Alexander says, looking up and grinning at him. “I’m gonna go through this fucker and start texting people— oh, right here. A text from Martha. And who might that be?” His expression mildens the slightest as he says, “A lover, I suppose,” but he controls it, keeps up the smile as best he can.

Thankfully, Thomas says, “My sister.” Alexander’s shoulders subconsciously relax; Thomas lazily smirks, “And sure— all you’ll get is the family drama, I guess.”

“Can I insert myself into your family trust fund or whatever the shit those are called?” Alexander asks, then: “Okay, I finished ordering, should be here in around 10 to 20 minutes.” He locks the phone and drops it on the bed next to him, leaning back and sighing. 

“Do you want to change?” Thomas asks, seemingly genuine, “The suit is bound to be uncomfortable.”

“Uh…” Alexander says, “No?” 

“You don’t sound too sure,” says Thomas. He pauses for a moment, then hesitates, tacking on a: “Your choice though, I’m just putting it out there.”

Alexander attempts to roll his eyes to hide the stilted awkwardness, “Fine— yeah. I’ll go downstairs to my room and grab a pair of my PJs.” To make the point, he brings himself back upright, tucking his hair behind the ear automatically when it falls on his face.

Thomas stares at him for a second. He sighs, reaching into his suitcase, and throws the bunch he grabs at Alexander’s face. “Here, you can borrow mine,” he says, “It’s not worth going downstairs for.”

“Uh—” says Alexander, gawking down at the clothes in his hands, “They’re gonna be way too big on me.”

“So?” Thomas asks, “It’ll look cute.”

“What,” says Alexander.

“What,” Thomas repeats innocently, batting his eyelashes.

A long silence passes. 

“You packed two pairs of Pajamas for a two-day trip, huh?” Alexander hums finally, recovering, “Dumbassery at it’s finest.”

Thomas smirks. “The colors depend on mood,” he says. “I, of course, have decided to wear my magenta one tonight.”

“Yeah, and I’m stuck with the one that looks exactly like magenta but apparently isn’t.”

“I think you mean Fuschia,” says Thomas.

“This is gonna be the ugliest things I will ever wear,” says Alexander, tilting his head down to analyze it, “But the material is fucking soft, holy shit, there’s no way I’m passing Rich People Pajamas up.”

“Why’d you capitalize that?”

“We’re having a conversation, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“The intonation, dumbass,” Thomas snickers. “Anyways, I’m going to go change.”

Alexander turns disgusted. “Yeah, I’ll change out here, I bet I’m ten times faster than you anyway— I know you have to do your whole ass gold-lotion face routine.”

Thomas merely huffs. He moves towards the bathroom, closes and locks the door. Alexander glares at the corner he had exited from, climbing off the bed to change swiftly. Once he does, his eyes widen: “Holy shit,” he mutters, “this thing is fucking comfy as hell.” He swallows, shifting around in it— the pants go past his feet, pooling on the ground, and the fabric of the shirt sleeve hangs off his hands. “I’m not gonna tell Jefferson that, though.”

“I heard that,” comes Jefferson’s exasperated and muffled by the wall voice.

“Fuck off,” says Alexander, crossing his arms though Thomas can’t see it.

There’s a peal of light laughter from the bathroom as Thomas exits it. He comes to sit at the edge of the bed, laying out the suit carefully. After the task is done, slowly and precariously, he turns his gaze up and takes in Alexander’s appearance. Thomas smirks. “Told you you’d look cute.”

Alexander’s heart speeds up the slightest, but he says _fuck off_ again and flips him off. He pauses, contemplating, then picks up the device he put on the nightstand. “What’s your PayPal?”

Thomas grins. “HottestVirginan89.”

“That would be James,” Alexander mutters, rolling his eyes. “Okay— be serious, seriously.”

The grin stretches. “HottestVirginan89.”

“Are you fucking serious—” Thomas nods, “— and you call _me_ immature, Jesus.“ 

“Don’t be jealous I’m better than you in every way possible. Also, you don’t need to pay me back.”

“Pack it up, Chazz Micheal Micheals,” Alexander mutters. “And yeah— I do, stop arguing on it.”

“I quite like arguing with you, so no,” says Thomas. He grabs the remote from the stand, and grins, turning back to watch Alexander’s expression carefully. “So, what’re you interested in watching— ” and then: “— Jimmy MacElroy?”

Alexander’s gaze snaps up immediately. 

Thomas snickers. “What— you think I’m not familiar with the most homoerotic-straight movie ever?”

“Didn’t take you as cultured,” says Alexander, then: “Okay, there, paid you back.”

“Thanks,” says Thomas, rolling his eyes in amusement.

“Yeah, I hope my last five bucks gets you a coffee sometime.”

As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door. Thomas’s eyebrows raise on their own accord as he crosses the room and opens the door, thanking the man at the front. Once it’s closed again, and he settles the two drinks back on the table, “That was fast.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Alexander, “Maybe no one orders from a coffee shop at, like, 10 at night?”

Thomas squints as he reads the label on both drinks— “They’re both hot chocolates?”

“Yeah,” says Alexander. “Gimme.” Thomas hands him one of the identical drinks; he takes a small sip, eyes lighting up. “Jesus, I forgot how not-coffee drinks tasted, this is good.”

“Yeah, you’re a fucking addicted to caffeine, we’re going to have to stage an intervention soon or something of the sort.” He takes his own drink and brings it up to his nose, sniffing. Thomas makes a pleased sound, "Yeah, it's good."

Alexander raises an eyebrow, taking another sip. “Well, you don’t see me drinking coffee right now, do you?” He tips his head towards the screen, “So, what do you want to watch?”

Thomas throws the remote on the bed next to him, “I don’t know, you pick.”

Alexander takes the device and clicks the power button. For a second, he stares, before bursting into a loud peal of laughter.

Thomas’s eyes widen as he watches the man; he leans over, plucks Alexander’s drink from his hand. Placing it on the table, he turns back to the TV. In an instant, his own expression morphs into something akin to disbelief. 

“No way,” he says.

Alexander clutches his stomach— “Oh, Jesus, fuck, they’re stalking us.”

Thomas’s gaze is trained on the two men on the screen— on the ice, really— and he snorts. “This is fucking creepy,” he says.

“Well,” he says, “Wanna watch the most homoerotic straight movie ever?”

“Probably my fiftieth time,” says Alexander, calming from the previous hysteria, “But yeah, duh, I’m never going to pass that up.” He leans over to the side, grabbing his drink from the table. “Why did you take it?” He asks.

Thomas rolls his eyes fondly. “You were bound to drop it while you, as I quote, donkey neighed,” he says.

“Oh,” says Alexander. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” says Thomas. 

His gaze lingers on the bed; Alexander follows it. There’s one bed. Of course, there is, and Alexander had hijacked it the moment they’d come into the room. Alexander bites his lip, shrugging as passively as he can manage. 

“Uh… sit down?” He scoots to the wall side to make a point, “There’s enough space.”

Thomas stares at him. He sighs, “Yeah, well, do I have a choice?” 

As the man climbs in next to him, Alexander glares. “Rude.”

“But true,” Thomas counters.

Alexander huffs. “You’re the living embodiment of the clown emoji— they made it with people like you in mind, probably.”

“Funny,” says Thomas, “The clown emoji is actually my most used.”

Alexander wrinkles his nose. “What, are you a fucking teenager?”

“I use it whenever I roast you.”

Alexander’s lips quirk up, “You must be talking about me a lot, then.”

Thomas flicks his shoulder, eyes trained ahead at the screen. He whistles at it, then shrugs, “Just with James— also, shut the fuck up. They’re doing the Iron Lotus.”

Alexander’s gaze snaps to the screen. “Favorite,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Well,” Alexander says, “Another thing we can agree on.”

“Shut up,” says Thomas. “I’m watching this.”

For the sake of the brilliant movie on the screen, Alexander does shut up. He sips his hot chocolate pretty speedily as he does with coffee— by the time he’s half-way done, Thomas has only taken his second sip. It seems he’s better at the man at everything, speed of finishing a drink included.

“I’m beating you,” mutters Alexander.

“Huh?”

“I’m gonna finish my drink before you.”

Thomas scowls at him. “Not everything is a competition, you know. Unlike you, not all of us chug things like it’s flavorless water— I’m savoring it.”

“Another way to say you’re a pretentious shit,” says Alexander.

“Shush,” says Thomas, “I’m watching.”

They sit in silence, let the movie play. Alexander blinks as the characters blur on the screen, suppressing a yawn. It’s stupid, but he’s tired after the day of being an important person at the wedding. At Seabury’s, he showed up. At Eliza and Maria’s, he was the best man. And well, the lack of sleep all week helped too, of course.

“Do you think it was rude of me to leave?” Alexander asks as the credits roll. He burrows further into the blankets for warmth and shakes his head, grimacing. “I don’t want to be a dick, seriously, I probably should’ve stayed.”

Thomas shifts so he’s facing the man. It’s awkward in a bed; they’re watching each other so carefully, and it’s something that feels so intimate it’s weird. Alexander tucks deeper into the sheet until he’s lying down, elbow in a triangle to hold his head.

“You stayed for the whole thing, practically,” says Thomas. “The ceremony was done, the cake was cut, and the dancing was dying down. You’re good.”

“Hm. You know, for my wedding,” he says, “It’s not going to be a wedding.”

Thomas’s eyebrow draws in confusion, “Huh?”

Alexander shrugs the best he can in his position. Though he loved attention, something about the whole ordeal of so many people watching something so intimate drew him away. Though it was great for other people, it just… wasn’t his thing. “I don’t know,” he says. “But… I mean, c’mon— they’re long as fuck. At this rate, I’m gonna leave my own, too.”

Thomas smiles. “Yeah, that’d be funny, huh?”

Alexander yawns. He blinks the slightest, expression dropping imperceptibly at the implication, forcing himself upright. “Uh— I honestly haven’t slept in a while because, well, do I ever, but uh— I think I’ll go back to my room now.”

Thomas stares at him. He swallows, a unique stiltedness spreading in his posture. “You can, uh, stay here, if you don’t want to go back to your room.” He coughs, hastily adding: “I mean, the hallways are probably cold, and—”

“Sure,” says Alexander, cutting him off. "Uh... yeah. Thanks." 

“Are you ready to sleep?” Thomas asks slowly, pronounced. 

Alexander shakes his head, swallows. “Um, no, it’s still too early, I probably would’ve watched some TV.” He offers a smile to Thomas, “Thanks again, by the way.”

“Yeah, of course,” says Thomas. He gestures to the TV, “We still have a TV here. You can close the main lights, I’ll put the lamp here. It’s milder.”

Alexander reaches out on the wall next to him and flips the switch. The room goes dark, save the TV light until a second later a dimmer, yellower light turns on. Thomas rustles around for a second; the channel changes. He scrolls and Alexander watches, both soaked in the silence. 

“Is History Channel fine?” Thomas asks.

“Uh— it’s your hotel room, you can pick.” Being this nice and civil feels weird; he coughs. “Also, by the way, I can’t wait to see your bed hair, I’m gonna take blackmail photos.”

Thomas reaches out and flicks his arm. “If you snore even once, I’m gonna throw you on the floor.”

“My secret talent is that I can sleep anywhere, so not a problem,” he answers, laughing breathily.

Thomas’s phone buzzes. He reaches out and grabs his phone off the nightstand, unlocks it, checks something. Thomas sighs harshly, rubbing a weary hand over his face. "Jesus," he says, irritated.

“What’s wrong?”

Thomas pauses. Through the direct light of the phone, Alexander notes his annoyed, ability helpless, expression. “Um, this is a random question, but do you want to be my plus one to my sister's wedding?”

“Uh…” says Alexander, “I’m not really interested in going to a fucking wedding again, but sure— I owe you for spilling water on your expensive ass suit, I guess.”

The irritated lines soften into something milder. This time, when he breathes out, it’s relieved. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” says Alexander. “Um, when is it? And which sister? And—”

“I’ll answer the questions later,” Thomas answers. “Too lazy to think about that shit right now.”

“Yeah,” Alexander replies. “Cool. Text me the details, or something.”

Jesus Christ, what is he getting himself into? This is the second wedding-related thing he's doing with Thomas— and now there’s another on the way. A part of him is nervous: what the fuck is going on between them, especially the stupid fucking nerves he has when talking to the man, but another is excited. It’s another chance to spend time with Thomas, and for some reason, that’s great. _When did it become_ great, he laments, _fuck me._

And now— he’s laying in the same fucking _bed_ as the man— what the _fuck_. Thomas had offered, though. Did it mean something? If he’d offered, he probably didn’t mind Alexander’s company, and if he’d asked for the plus one thing, Thomas definitely didn’t dislike him as much as he thought. I mean, c’mon, he never really _hated_ Thomas either, but he enjoyed arguing with him, and there was certainly a difference between wanting a 19th-century duel to kill him and wanting to hate fuck him, and— 

“Jesus, fuck,” says Alexander. 

“Huh?”

Alexander slaps his forehead. It makes a noise, echoing throughout the room. “Nothing, go back to sleep.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

Some dude on the TV screen drones on in the background about whether aliens built the pyramids; Alexander scowls to himself and tunes back out of the bullshit two moments in— “Okay, yeah, fine— go back to watching that crap.”

“It’s entertaining, though.” Thomas says, then: “Are you alright?”

“Remembered an embarrassing memory,” says Alexander. 

“You must have a lot,” says Thomas. 

“Fuck off,” says Alexander, turning away and settling into the blanket. “I’m gonna sleep, now— um, good night.”

There’s some rustling; the TV shuts off a second later. “Yeah, me too,” says Thomas. “Good night.”

Silence passes, then more. 

Time passes, then more.

As it turns out, Alexander cannot fucking fall asleep with Thomas laying five inches away from him. He forces his eyes closed, but alas, his active brain seems to be acting like a stubborn, loud bitch tonight.

“Hey, Thomas?” He asks suddenly, unable to stop himself.

“Yeah?” comes Thomas’s not very sleepy voice. 

“Why’d you tap me on the shoulder? You know, before I spilled water on you.”

Thomas’s side falls silent for a brief moment. At last, he speaks, but it’s softer than before— “I was going to ask if you wanted to dance,” he says. Clearing his throat, “With me, I mean.”

“Oh,” says Alexander. He blinks slowly, pronounced, staring into the darkness of the room. “We can dance together at your sister’s wedding, then.”

From his side, Thomas laughs, short and sweet and most of all: genuine. Alexander likes the sound, makes a mental note to provoke it more often. “Of course, Alex,” he whispers. 

“Good night, Thomas.”

“Bonne Nuit, Alexander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the sake of this let's pretend they both brushed their teeth somewhere in there because.,,?,?,?,, yeah lmao good hygiene but oops i forgot to add it.
> 
> also chazz micheal micheals and jimmy macelroy are literally ham and jeff in another life and im going to maybe write a blades of glory au because that movie is >>> so like stay tuned for it if i do end up doing it ksjdfnkse

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked! drink some water and leave a kudo if you did :)


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